


attend

by synecdochic



Series: attention [3]
Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Daniel Has Issues, Imported, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-19
Updated: 2007-05-19
Packaged: 2018-05-30 08:08:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6415717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/synecdochic/pseuds/synecdochic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cam accidentally trips over Daniel's issues. Fortunately, he doesn't let it stop him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	attend

**Author's Note:**

> (Originally [posted](https://synecdochic.dreamwidth.org/125032.html) 2007-05-19.)

Cam's expecting, of course, to be thrown out right off. Or soon enough, rather; he doesn't think even Jackson's rude enough to make him pick himself up and put himself back together enough to operate complex machinery (like his _shoes_ ) so soon after sex that explosive, but he's not exactly expecting professions of eternal and undying affection. Was pretty much prepared for not even a by-your-leave, figuring he'd be lucky if he could beg a shower (and yeah, he's gonna have to put up with some _looks_ from the lobby staff in his apartment building when he comes staggering home looking like he's been ridden hard and put away wet, but they're used to him coming home at all hours looking like something the cat wouldn't even be willing to drag in, so there's no surprise there). He's expecting the way Jackson rolls off him, like he's preparing to get up and throw Cam out, like Jackson's ready to pick up whatever he put down enough to let him do this and go back to being cool and distant behind friendly-seeming eyes again.

He's not expecting Jackson to leave one leg tangled with his, one arm draped over his back. Fondly. Almost possessively. He's not expecting the fingertips tracing lines and whorls across the small of his back, where the sweat's pooling and already starting to cool. He's really not expecting the way those fingers dip lower, down into the valley along his tailbone, and come to idle rest brushing up against his hole. He's sore as hell -- pleasantly sore, pleasantly _used_ \-- but his hips move anyway, just a little, like the first animal instinct is to welcome Jackson's fingers in. 

He couldn't get it up again if he _tried_ \-- twice in half an hour is pushing it; three times would take a chemical miracle -- but there's something warm about the touch. Almost reassuring. Which is weird. After a fuck like that, he usually doesn't want to be touched for a good long time, but there's something close to comfort in the knowledge that Jackson's weird enough to break all his patterns.

"You like that," Jackson says, after a few minutes of gentle stroking. Makes Cam feel like a cat being petted, it does; makes him want to arch into it and bump his head up against Jackson's chin. 

The sound of Jackson's words is weird. Curious, yeah; Jackson could probably keep "curious" half asleep or all dead. But there's something else there, half affection and half wonder and all of it missing the edge Jackson's usually got to him. 

_Going through all this again,_ Jackson had said, and yeah, stuff's starting to make sense, down in the part of Cam that figures people out while his attention's elsewhere and clues him in when he needs to know it and not a minute sooner. So he answers honestly, because if this isn't a temporary truce from keeping score he doesn't know what is. "Always have." He can hear the drawl in his voice, thick and syrupy like clover honey, and usually it annoys him when he lets his accent slip that far but right now it just seems right.

Cam's wet enough still, sticky with lube and come, that Jackson's finger slides home without any real resistance. And damned if Cam can't feel his dick twitching. Not ready to get hard again, not for a while, but the tip of Jackson's finger is nudging up against his prostate like it's some kind of toy Jackson's using to keep his hands busy while they talk. Which it might very well be, he thinks, and yeah, that'd be the click of something falling into place if his whole nervous system wasn't so damn redlined right now: Jackson can't have this conversation while looking him in the eye. So Jackson's going to do his best to distract him, and right now, Cam's totally down with this particular plan.

"Ja -- my last lover didn't. Not like this."

Close enough to a confession, and closer than Cam had ever expected. Still. Explains a lot. More than he'd wanted, really; he doesn't need details, he doesn't have any kind of claim here, and yeah, he's heard the rumors but he's heard a lot of rumors and he knows more'n half of them can't be true. 

Jackson's stroking him, inside to out, and he can feel his muscles twitching involuntarily against each long line. It's not arousing, not precisely. Comfort, yeah, in a twisted sort of way. The reassurance of being tended, tendered. He fights the urge to turn his head and see what kind of look's on Jackson's face; if Jackson wanted him to know, he'd say something. Instead, he lets his eyes drift shut, rests his cheek against the sheets. He can smell himself there, just like he'd wanted. The whole room probably smells of sex and sweat. 

His hips rock back against the touch, not bothering to let him know of their plans ahead of time, and Jackson makes a small chuffing sound of amusement. Not quite a laugh, but more than an exhale. "Does that feel good?" Jackson asks against Cam's shoulder. It's all curious and no calculating, which is what takes Cam a second to recognize it. 

"Yeah," Cam says. Because it does. He's worn out straight through and he probably couldn't move if Ba'al came through the door waving a zat, but he just likes the feel of something inside him. Always has; he wasn't lying. He drifts on it for a few minutes, endorphins and adrenaline-letdown running through his veins -- not quite sleepy, not exactly, but relaxed like rockabye and goodnight anyway. Then adds, because today's a day for asking for what he wants -- out loud or otherwise -- "Gimme 'nother finger."

There's a pause, like Jackson's not sure of something, and for a second Cam wonders if he's fucked it. But no; the pause is apparently just Jackson trying to gather the momentum to move, to slide his finger free, roll away. Cam nearly protests, but it's too much effort, and by the time it's penetrated the haze he's swimming in, Jackson's penetrating him. Two fingers this time, and the lube's cold, but the lube's always cold and the shock of it soothes away the soreness.

Jackson spreads himself over Cam's side, his back, and there's something about the way Jackson's forehead bumps the back of Cam's head that makes Cam melt a little. "Marking already," Jackson murmurs, and it takes Cam a minute to realize that he means the back of Cam's neck where he'd bitten down. And if Cam had been melting already, that's nothing compared to the heart-stop shock of Jackson's lips brushing, gently, over the bruise. Like he's trying to kiss away the hurt that isn't a hurt at all. 

Which is probably a metaphor for something, but Cam's brain isn't up to processing complex relationships yet. Might not be for a while, if Jackson keeps sliding his fingers in and out, twisting, stretching. Opening him and filling him. He exhales on a sigh of contentment that turns into a demi-moan halfway through, and can feel, not hear, Jackson's laughter through his skin.

"'Sgood," Cam says, which probably isn't the wittiest conversation he could be aiming for, but which he thinks is pretty impressively coherent, all told. 

"Yes, it would be," Jackson says, absently. Distracted, but it's all right, because the distraction stems from his attention being elsewhere, distilled down to his hands and the tips of his fingers, plucking Cam's nerves like guitar strings. "Pleasure without obligation. Without pressure. The act of receiving, without distraction; sublimating and glorifying the self all at once. I can see the appeal." 

If Jackson's using words like 'sublimating', there's more going on in his brain than there really should be, but just as Cam's thinking that, Jackson's changing the angle, plunging his fingers all the way up to the base of his knuckles and scissoring them wide. Cam breathes out another half-moan and shivers all the way up his spine. And yeah, he's always been a pushy bottom -- _such a do-me queen_ , his last fuck-buddy had said, laughing -- but he's never gotten anything like this before, this sort of offering-up of sensation with no goal but the journey. It feels so _much_ that the pit of his stomach is nearly cramping with it, and God, he doesn't ever want it to stop. 

And it's like Jackson can hear his thoughts, _sense_ them at least. Like there's some kind of circuit being completed. Because Jackson says, all dreamy detachment as his thumb strokes the swell of Cam's ass and his fingers explore Cam's boundaries, "You could take this all damn night if I wanted, couldn't you."

It's not talking dirty, or an insult, or Jackson playing the -- _role? yeah, role_ \-- he was playing earlier. Now it's just a question. And because Cam's not ashamed of it -- no shame in seeking pleasure, not if you're not hurting yourself or anyone else; don't matter what you do, as long as you do it above-board and on the level -- he hums agreement and says, "Have, sometimes. Nothin' wrong with wantin' to feel good."

There's no hitch in Jackson's voice when he says "for some people, I guess," but Cam can feel Jackson's muscles tensing anyway, against his back, against the backs of his thighs. And that makes another piece fall into place. 

"He hurt you pretty bad, didn't he," he says, before he can think about all the reasons it would be a better idea not to.

Jackson's fingers still, and his voice is bright and artifical as he says, too quickly, "Who?"

Can't leave it half done, but both of them know who Cam's talking about, and he doesn't want to insult Jackson's intelligence, doesn't want to accept Jackson's insult to his own, by specifying. He rouses himself enough to put a little bit of don't-call-me-stupid in his voice. "Him." 

Jackson's quiet for a long couple heartbeats, motionless. Then, "We hurt each other," he says. Casually, carelessly, but it rings wrong, and Cam knows there's whole volumes of stories there. Still. Not his place to ask for them. "It wasn't anybody's fault. And it's over now. Roll over."

Jackson slides his fingers loose, and Cam almost protests, because he's not ready for this to end yet. Not even if he managed to piss Jackson off with his careless questions. He'd rather apologize and put rest to it, keep going for a little while longer. But then Jackson's last few words make their way through his ears and up to his brain, and they don't quite make sense, so all he can say is, "...huh?"

"Roll over. I want to see this. I want to watch your face."

It's just about the first time he can ever recall Jackson issuing a direct statement of preference, and never for anything so personal; it's enough of a shock that Cam's stirring before he realizes. It's not an order; he knows what those sound like. It's a request. One he never would have expected Jackson to make.

By the time he gets on his back -- yeah, he's still a little bit out of it, but the confusion's making his head sharpen a little, because this is dangerous territory and he doesn't have a map -- Jackson's sitting up, cross-legged, his hair every-which-way. His face is more open than Cam's ever seen it before, but Cam can't read what's resting there much beyond hunger. He feels naked, suddenly. More naked than he felt when he was spread out and begging for it. Jackson's another person, suddenly and without warning, and Cam's spent months and months learning how to deal with the old one; he's not sure what to do with this stranger wearing Jackson's skin.

It's awkward for a second, not knowing where to put his legs -- draw up his knees? Drop them over Jackson's, leave himself close and open? Stretch out at Jackson's side and let him decide? -- but Jackson solves the problem for him with a hand to his inner thigh, wordless pressure; he guides Cam into lying with his head pillowed up on the sheets tangled at the foot of the bed, his thighs draped up over Jackson's knees. Jackson rubs the side of one thumb, the one still slick with lube, over the bridge of his nose, a thoughtless gesture to scratch an itch. Then wrinkles his nose and scrubs at it with the other hand, the one that's still mostly dry, to clean off the stickiness a little. The normality of it all makes Cam feel better, somehow.

Cam props himself up on his elbows, squints a little; it's late in the afternoon, and the sun's starting to creep down the sky, right into his eyes. "Why'd you do this?" he asks.

Jackson frowns, the lines of his eyebrows drawing together. He runs his fingertips down the crease where Cam's groin meets thigh, not quite touching Cam's balls -- and he's grateful for that; that'd be the wrong kind of touch right now, and somehow he thinks Jackson might know it -- but slipping behind them slowly. "Because I could," he says, as though the answer should be self-evident.

"No," Cam says, and just then, Jackson's fingers sink inside him again; he has to stop, because he's too busy breathing against the depth, the way it feels when something you weren't ready to let slip away comes back again. He drops back against the bed, and his eyes must cross or roll back in his head or _something_ , because Jackson's face swims out of focus and it takes a long time to come back. 

"No?" Jackson prompts, after a minute, and Cam huffs out a breath and tries to remember what the fuck he'd been talking about. It's harder to put in words than he thought it would be.

"You were saying what you thought I wanted to hear," he finally settles on. His eyes are threatening to drift closed, because sweet Lord in heaven this feels fucking fantastic -- this angle's better, so much better, and Jackson's got his fingers curled up deep and gentle, rocking back and forth in little circles. But Cam's got a good sense for this kind of thing, and that sense is telling him it's important that he watch.

Jackson's still looking confused. Or no, not confused, not quite -- just faintly puzzled, like he can't understand what Cam's getting at. "Wasn't it?"

It makes Cam laugh -- because hell yeah it was, damn straight. He's always gotten off on hearing men talk dirty in his ear; he doesn't have any kind of kink for degradation, but he's always loved feeling like he can make someone want him despite all their best intentions, and all most people mean when they say the word 'whore' is someone who likes fucking more than they think he should. The laugh feels good. He hums out the pleasure and shifts his weight a little, tips his hips up and back and takes more of his weight on the small of his back. He doesn't want Jackson's hand to cramp from the angle. But as good as this feels, as much as it's soothing something so deep he doesn't even have words for it, his higher brain functions are starting to come back on line, and he knows -- _knows_ \-- he's on to something important here. Something vital. 

"That the only reason?" he prompts. "Or you just too used to sex being one more battle in some huge war?"

It hits way too close to home. Cam can tell by the way Jackson's shoulders tighten, the way his fingers spasm (and then, quickly, relax again: back to soothing so fast Cam can't hardly tell if he was imagining it or not, except he knows he wasn't) and his face goes blank. 

"Nevermind," he says, quickly, before Jackson can answer. He got his answer. Not kind to make Jackson have to put it into words.

"No," Jackson says. Slowly, reluctantly, like wild horses are dragging it out of him. "No, you're --"

 _\--right_ , it's going to be, and Cam knows, and knows Jackson doesn't want to say it and it'd only be his over-developed sense of fair play that'd make him. So Cam interrupts, a little more forcefully than he intended: "I said nevermind."

There's a few seconds of awkward silence, and suddenly Jackson's fingers don't feel as good as they did a minute ago. Cam sighs; he's losing that drifty sense of pleasure, and he knows trying to chase after it will just leave him chilly and cold. 

"I'm sorry," Jackson says. He seems to feel it too, because his eyes are sad, and Cam regrets that more than anything else.

And it's important for him to chase that look away, so he pushes himself back up onto his elbows and says, putting every inch of sincerity he can manage into it, "I don't play games like that. Ever. What you see is what you get."

"Yes," Jackson says, thoughtfully. Consideringly. The sound of a dawning realization. "I'm beginning to see that."

He lets his fingers slide free -- and Cam winces a little, just a faint tic, because he is starting to feel a little raw and sore now, and it's not as pleasant as it was before. He's just ready to roll over, get himself up and moving, off to the bathroom for a wet towel and some cold water, when Jackson puts his hands down on the bed -- lube all over the sheets, doesn't seem to care -- and leans over Cam to kiss him.

It's not a very good kiss. Cam wasn't expecting it, for one, and Jackson caught him with his mouth half-open and his lips dry and it's all awkward and uncertain and there's the usual problems of who's gonna take point and whether to breathe or hold his breath. But Jackson pulls back after a second, licks his lips -- Cam licks his too, automatically -- and then tries again. And as soon as Cam's brain catches up -- Jackson's _kissing_ him, soft and hesitant, letting Cam _touch_ him, welcoming that touch in a way Cam couldn't have imagined in a _million fucking years_ \-- well, it's nicer this time. By far.

He's still not sure what's going on. Jackson's kneeling between his legs, now, on hands and knees, crouching above him, and normally Cam would read something like that as a show of dominance, a preface to his partner trying to crawl up inside and make himself at home under Cam's skin. But Jackson's leaning _back_ , not _down_ , and for a second Cam's worried Jackson's trying to pull away, worried there's something huge and conflicted going on inside Jackson's skull that's got him trapped halfway between will and won't and Cam's the one who accidentally woke it.

And then he realizes; Jackson's body is trying to get him to _follow_.

Cam's used to men who ask for what they want, stringing out lines of dirty syllables that climb inside his head to turn him on, and he'd thought for sure Jackson would be one of them once he got the man's prim-and-proper mussed up a bit. Been a long time since he misread someone this badly, because the lips against his are practically shouting confusion. He wonders, suddenly, if Jackson -- if _Daniel_ \-- has ever known what he wanted. Somehow, he's guessing not.

Been a longer time since he's been to bed with a virgin. And Daniel's no virgin, that much is clear, but -- hell if he isn't just as confused as one. And Cam knows, suddenly: he fucked up. You break it, you buy it; he's got a lot of work to do.

He breaks the kiss -- Daniel looks confused, then hurt, then _blank_ , all in the space of a second or two, but Cam doesn't let him start up that internal monologue again. He slides out from underneath Daniel's body, nudges him to sit back on his heels. Kneels in front of him as well, so they're at eye level. Knees touching. Daniel's eyes are back to pantomiming confusion, but Cam brings his hands up, feather-light, to rest his palms on Daniel's cheeks and curl his thumbs down to brush Daniel's lips. 

"What you see is what you get," Cam repeats, looking for words, looking for the _right_ words. Words are important to Daniel; he's learned that much. "What you get is what you want. Whatever you want. Even if you don't know what it is." It's almost right; not completely. He can't say what he really wants to say -- _I want to make that hurt stop stinging_ \-- because he knows Daniel won't be willing to hear, not yet. Time for that later, if there is a later, and if there's not, well, he'll do what he can now. There's time still. "If --" He stops, then sighs. Sometimes you have to face the fact that your best intentions might not mean a good goddamn. "I didn't know I was stirring up old shit. I'm sorry. If you want me to leave, we can pretend this never happened."

" _No_." The word bursts from Daniel's lips, perhaps the first unguarded utterance Cam's ever heard from him. Daniel's lips stay rounded after the 'o', and Cam's a little startled to realize Daniel's turned it into a kiss, an invitation, pressed against his thumbs. Daniel's got his eyes fixed on Cam's shoulder, neutral territory, and he adds, sounding more than a little bit strangled, "I don't -- I want -- I --"

He breaks off, and Cam can sense the frustration, radiating off Daniel like waves. He waits, though. It's not the kind of silence you take away from someone else to make it easier; it's the kind of silence you wait for them to fill up themselves.

And sure enough, after a long minute where Cam strokes his thumbs over Daniel's lips and tries to project calm unpressured reassurance with every line of his body, every point where they're touching, Daniel says, "Tell me why it's so easy for you."

And yeah. _Hell_. Cam's not sure what it says about himself that he's always hottest for the ones who need the most healing.

They might be here a while, and he knows his feet'll go numb if he stays kneeling on them for too long, so he shifts his weight, sits his ass down on the bed ( _ouch_ ) and folds himself up cross-legged. It makes him have to take his hands away from Daniel's face, and instead of putting them back when he's settled, he takes Daniel's wrist in both his hands. Ignores the fingers that fall against his own wrist, still tacky with the last few bits of the drying lube that Daniel didn't smear across the sheets, and digs his thumbs lightly into the spot he knows always aches worst after holding a pen or finger-fucking someone. Daniel's eyes flutter closed. It gives Cam a minute to think of what he'll say, of how he'll say it. Sometimes you only get one chance at this.

"Part of it's luck," he finally starts. "Part of it's temperament. Part of it's knowing there's nothing two people can do to each other that's bad or wrong, long's they're both on the same page." Which is where he fell down, and oh, he's gonna be kicking himself for a few weeks or months over that one. He pauses. Looks for a better word, but there isn't one. "Big part of it is being able to recognize grace when you find it, and not go runnin' in the other direction."

He expects that one to need an explanation, but of _course_ Daniel knows his theology -- Daniel would have made a good preacher if he he hadn't been inoculated so thoroughly against religion at such an early age, Cam thinks. And he'd lay even money on Daniel knowing precisely what he means by it. Not divine grace, not some God beyond the heavens dispensing saving grace at whim or universally, but the simple and direct grace of the spirit moving in you to show a kindness to someone who needs it.

Knows academically, that is. He's somehow pretty sure Daniel's never run into it in the wild. 

Cam doesn't talk about his faith, pretty much not ever. He'll talk about his church, and he'll talk about his religion, but his _faith_ 's all tied up in everything he is and everything he does, and it's the kind of thing nobody should have to hear about if they're not interested in the hows and whys of it. Faith's a private thing, between a man and his conscience. And some people would say that all naked and well-fucked is the wrong time to be thinking about it, but Cam's always thought that was stupid. If your faith's not there when someone's breaking you down into little tiny pieces, well, it's not gonna be there when you get done putting yourself back together. And if making someone feel good isn't a kindness, well, he doesn't know what is.

Daniel's brows are drawn together, like he's mulling this over, and Cam works the knots and tendons of Daniel's wrist -- up his arm, down to his palm, up and back again -- with his thumbs. "I -- think I understand," Daniel says, slowly. Too slowly; it means he doesn't. There's regret in his voice. It means he doesn't think he's got a chance of being able to make it work for him.

The shape of what'd be right is starting to take form in Cam's head. He takes Daniel's hand in one of his own, turns it over a little to expose the wrist, strokes the tips of his fingers up the sensitive skin there. He can feel Daniel shivering a little; Cam would think it from cold, if it wasn't still hot enough in here to make you melt. 

"Will you let me touch you?" Cam asks, and Daniel shivers a little more at the sound of it.

"You _are_ touching me," Daniel says. He drops his eyes to Cam's fingers sweeping circles over the inside of his wrist. There's a little snip of annoyance in his voice, like he resents having to point this out, like he's trying to decide whether to resent the whole damn lot of this. 

"No," Cam says, before Daniel can say anything further, before he can retreat any more. "Look at me." He waits while Daniel considers the request, waits until Daniel sets his shoulders and lifts his eyes (blank, defensive, wooden). Then he reaches up and almost -- _almost_ \-- brushes his fingers against Daniel's cheek. He's waiting to see if Daniel pulls away or leans into it, and he's more comforted than he could say when Daniel exhales, turns his head, and presses his cheek and chin into that touch. 

"Let me touch you," Cam says, softly, "like it means something."

Daniel closes his eyes; he sighs out again, a sharp sad sound. His lips move against Cam's skin, but whatever words they are, they don't have voice behind them. It's not a "no", though, and that's what Cam's worried about, so he lets his hand fall down to Daniel's shoulder and nudges, gently, backwards.

He's expecting resistance -- with Daniel, he's always expecting resistance -- but the inertia doesn't seem too ingrained, because Daniel lets Cam push him back until he's lying down with his shoulders propped up against the pillows, brows drawn together, blinking in confusion. "Ah," Daniel starts, "what do you mean by --" 

Cam rests two fingers over Daniel's lips. Yeah, he's been wanting to shush Daniel for a really long time, but he's only now starting to realize how much that familiar stream of words functions as a warning sign, a system diagnostic to indicate nerves or discomfort. "Let me touch you," he repeats again, and Daniel swallows heavily and meets Cam's eyes and nods _yes_.

He stretches himself out along Daniel's side, fitting himself against Daniel's skin, and gets himself settled so he can see Daniel's face; he's reading the cues from Daniel's body, sure, but he's starting to realize that the important part comes when body and face are saying two different things. He rests one hand in the center of Daniel's chest, palm open and flat, fingers splayed. He can feel Daniel's heartbeat beneath him; it's racing like an engine that's slipping gears. 

"Close your eyes," he says, and Daniel does, and it's the first damn time Cam's ever seen him obey an order without protest. 

And Cam starts at Daniel's temples. Strokes along his hairline, brushes a thumb along his eyebrows, explores down the bridge of his nose. Rests fingers on Daniel's lips again, disguised kiss, and he can feel Daniel's exhale before Daniel mouths at them -- or maybe it's words, but if it is, he can't tell and he doesn't want to go looking. He traces Daniel's jawline instead, digs his fingers lightly into the join of jaw and skull, and Daniel's lips part; Cam can see his eyelids fluttering.

Cam's impulse is to say something, to explain himself, but he chokes it back and palms the curve of Daniel's neck instead. Everyone talks to Daniel and nobody touches him, and maybe that's why Daniel doesn't know how to be touched. He runs his palm along Daniel's collarbone, settles his thumb in the hollow of Daniel's throat and counts the beats of the pulse there. Daniel's skin is cool. Cooler than Cam would have expected. The sun's starting to tip down over the horizon, but it's still hotter'n sin and twice as humid.

He's concentrating on exploring, on giving comfort, on giving _pleasure_ , but it still makes his breath catch when his thumb catches one of Daniel's nipples and Daniel makes a sound that's half yearning, half despair. He's never heard a sound like that before. It's the sound of someone who doesn't dare believe he's going to get what he wants, and it breaks Cam's fucking heart into a hundred damn pieces.

He rolls himself over, spreads himself out on top of Daniel's skin. Touching chest to chest and belly to belly, quiescent dicks rubbing together. And Daniel's face tips up, like a flower, like a fucking sunrise, and Cam rests his forehead on the bridge of Daniel's nose for half a second -- _come on, work with me here_ \-- before he nips gently at Daniel's lips.

Those lips part beneath his own, and Cam gives himself time to explore. No goal but the journey, really; they're both full fucked out, and anyway, what he really wants to do is show Daniel that there's pleasure in just this lazy meandering. To show Daniel how to _accept_ the pleasure in this lazy meandering. _It's okay_ , he's trying to say. Okay to give, okay to take, okay to enjoy. Cam's no genius, but it doesn't take genius to put together how Daniel must be used to. Quick and dirty and rushed: not in the good way, but in the way that makes it all about shame. So Cam puts aside his doubts, and he centers himself in the here and now, and he couldn't say how long they spend at it, but by the time the sky's picked up that last-gasp brightness of impending sunset, Daniel's lying open and breathless beneath him.

"Please," Daniel finally murmurs, " _please_ ," and Cam knows he doesn't even know what he's asking for. He drops his head to Daniel's shoulder for a minute, because his neck's long since started to ache from holding himself steady, and Daniel shivers all over and his fingers tense aimlessly against Cam's back. 

Cam traces the line of Daniel's collarbone with his lips. "Hush," he says. He doesn't want Daniel talking; it'll only serve to wake his conscious mind again, and Cam's spent too much time getting Daniel here to let it slip away. He tastes his way across Daniel's chest -- beautiful, so fucking _beautiful_ , both the body and the spirit it houses. Daniel shivers again, and Cam wonders if anyone's ever taken the time to learn every inch of this skin.

"You just let me take care of you," Cam says. He's good at words of comfort like this, used to setting his mouth to talking and trusting the right things will come out of it, and what's coming out of it are words like "easy" and "slow" and "relax" and "whatever you want". He catches himself just before some endearment can slip free, because Daniel's worth more than the same kind of name Cam would use for any one of the people who grace his bed from time to time. So instead he listens to what Daniel's body is screaming at him -- _more please yes_ \-- and slides his way down to where Daniel's dick is just starting to take notice.

When Cam takes Daniel into his mouth, the sound Daniel makes is the sound of something coming undone. No fancy tricks, no showing off; there's a time and a place for that, but this isn't the time or the place. Cam puts the palms of his hands flat against Daniel's thighs, and he rubs long lines and small circles, and he works his lips and his tongue until he can tell where all of Daniel's sweet spots are. It doesn't take long before Daniel's moving restlessly underneath him. 

He could keep Daniel here like this for a while, he knows: let Daniel drift in the pleasure of being tended to. And he's tempted to, as an apology really: making up for the bad memories he stirred up by accident. Daniel deserves some long slow care. But then Daniel draws his legs up, plants the heels of his feet against the bed and lets his knees fall open, wide open, hips coming up off the bed and arching into Cam's touch, and Cam can tell it for what it is: an invitation. A plea.

Cam's turned on, but he's turned on in the way that's ninety-five percent mental -- he hasn't gotten past half hard, and he could, but the last thing he wants right now is for this to be about him. Because it's not. He casts out for the lube and manages to get one hand on it without having to pull back, thank God, and Daniel makes a little choked-off sound when he hears the click of the top flicking back. Cam slicks up the fingers of one hand without worrying about how much lube he's getting on the sheets, and Daniel goes taut and still when Cam presses the tip of his index finger against Daniel's entrance.

Cam can't read whether it's the good kind of tension or the bad kind, so he gets his mouth free just long enough to say "yeah?" And Daniel doesn't answer, not in words, but he pushes himself up against Cam's hand so Cam's finger slips inside him, and the noise Daniel makes is one Cam recognizes as want that runs so deep it's scary. So Cam runs his other hand over Daniel's hip to soothe him, and he puts his mouth back on Daniel's dick -- not moving, just holding him there, sucking lightly to reassure -- and he slides his finger back and forth, once, to see where Daniel shivers again. 

Slow, and steady, and Cam can't tell how long it is before Daniel's moving his head from side to side against the pillow and making tiny guttural noises of yearning. Cam tests another finger and listens to the sounds Daniel's making, free and unfettered. The angle's all wrong, he can't get as deep as Daniel's trying to take him, and so he lets Daniel's dick slip from his mouth to kneel up between Daniel's legs. Daniel breathes out on a moan and lifts his hips to meet Cam's fingers, and Cam wonders if this is what he himself looks like when he's giving himself over to how damn good it feels.

He hopes it is, because if it is, it means Daniel's somewhere close to where Cam's trying to take him. 

Deep and slow, not rough, but forceful; that's what Daniel's body is asking for, and Cam concentrates on the tips of his fingers, on making sure he's got them right where Daniel needs them to be. Daniel's breathing in time with each stroke now, hard and heavy and more than half desperate. Cam takes his hand off Daniel's hip and puts it on Daniel's dick, and Daniel shakes his head -- once, twice -- and tenses his thighs and comes: utterly silent at first, building slowly into a shout by the end, until he's slumped, limp and boneless, against the mattress.

Even after it's over, even after Daniel's finished riding out the orgasm to its end, Cam can still feel the tremors riding up and down Daniel's body, little twitches and quivers of muscle and nerve. He rubs Daniel's thigh -- getting come everywhere, but hey, the sheets are done for anyway -- and works his thumb into the muscle on the outside of Daniel's thigh that's probably weak from being tensed so long. He doesn't say anything, as much as he wants to. Daniel will speak when he's ready, and until then, Cam's going to give him the quiet.

He's watching Daniel's face closely, which is why he sees the little involuntary wince that tells him Daniel's had enough. He lets his fingers slip free and tries to figure out if Daniel even knows he's there and whether or not Daniel wants him close or if he can go take care of the cleanup. He can't tell, so he says, softly enough that it won't penetrate the haze if Daniel's far enough gone, "I'll be right back. Not gonna leave you, but I'm gonna go get us cleaned up, okay?"

He waits for a response, but all he gets is a half-voiced string of syllables that don't even sound like English. He hesitates for a minute, sitting back on his heels, but Daniel doesn't stir further, and so he gets up and goes into the bathroom to wash his hands. When he catches sight of his face in the bathroom mirror, he has to stop and stare at himself, because the eyes looking back at him are sad and he can't quite tell why.

When he gets back, with a clean wet towel and a glass full of water, Daniel's rolled over onto his side and made a halfhearted attempt at pulling the sheet up over him. His eyes are closed, and his breathing is even and regular. Cam stands by the bedside for a minute, debating whether it's worth it to try to get Daniel awake enough to cooperate in the cleanup, and finally decides to reach what he can and leave the rest for a shower later. Daniel, asleep, is sweetly pliable.

The bedroom's quiet, and it's slipped past dusk to fully dark somewhere along the way. Cam's eyes have adjusted, though, and the streetlights let him study Daniel's face clearly enough. He almost doesn't recognize the calm showing there. Until the moment he saw it, he would have said he'd seen Daniel calm before, seen Daniel at peace, but he knows, now, that all of those times were just pale imitation.

Finally, he sits cross-legged next to Daniel on the bed, one of his hands resting on the crest of Daniel's hip, and traces tiny drawings along the base of Daniel's spine. He does not, precisely, think about what has happened. Thinking about things always leads to overthinking things, and overthinking things leads him to make the wrong choices. Instead, he watches the way Daniel is clinging to the outside edge of the bed, leaving plenty of space even in his worn-out state, and he can't decide if it's Daniel making room or Daniel distancing himself. Cam can see the shape of what must have gone down before -- the outline of it, at least, and the outline is enough to make him want to curl up behind Daniel, sling an arm over Daniel's waist, and hold him close. He's got a sinking feeling that not only would Daniel not expect that kind of post-coital affection, not only would Daniel not think to ask for it, but Daniel wouldn't know what to do with it if he were awake enough to register it.

But Cam's worn out enough that he could use a nap too, and so he gives into the impulse, settling himself up against Daniel's back spoon-fashion. And the room's still sticky-hot, and the quick sponge bath he gave himself in the sink didn't do much for the sweat and come that leaves Cam craving a shower, and it's far too hot for cuddling close. He does it anyway. And the soft sigh Daniel gives, the way he leans back against Cam -- sweetly, sleepily -- makes it all worth it. 

He puts his arm over Daniel's side, and he puts his palm against Daniel's chest, and he holds his hand wide open against Daniel's skin and feels the weight of Daniel's heartbeat. And if this wasn't what he was looking for when he walked into this apartment eight hours back, well, it's what he's found, and he's not going to walk away just because it came out different, not when he's always believed that things happen for a reason. It's all right. Cam's got patience, and it looks like he's learned a few lessons Daniel never got around to, and he's willing enough to teach them. He just wishes Daniel didn't have so much to unlearn, first.

Well, he doesn't have anywhere else to be for the rest of the weekend. They can sleep for a while, and then get up and take a shower, change the sheets and start a load of laundry. Then maybe Cam will bring Daniel back to bed, touch him some more, let Daniel touch him. Slow and lazy, or fast and urgent if that's how Daniel wants it, or whatever happens to come around. Been a good long time since Cam's spent a whole weekend in bed, but he's willing to wager Daniel never has. Not with a man, at least, not like this. It's all right. If Daniel's willing to let him do it, well, Cam's got nothing but time.

There's a breeze coming in through the open window. Cam lies in the darkness, watching the way the curtains move, and does not let himself think about who might have been here before.


End file.
